Wunderschöner Engel
by fellow-traveller
Summary: A short story about Ludwig and how he learnt about love and death. RusGer AU.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** _This is actually a rage-written fic due to the fact that I lost the file to my fanfic** I Want To Hear You Say** (hence the lack of update in that story). I just recently found this unfinished work...partially having a theme on post-mortem photography. Initially, it was only about Ludwig and his brothers, but being a RusGer fan, I have to add Ivan in the end. Otherwise the story would look uninteresting, as if there's a loophole in it._

_It's supposed to be a one-shot, but my one-shots are always so long, that I have to split it up into two. Currently, I'm adding the Ivan bit in the story, so have the first part for now. Enjoy it, okay?_

_To ease you in reading this,** Klaus is HRE** and **Gunther is 2P!Germany/East Germany**. Their father would probably look like Germania. Klaus is the eldest, followed by Gilbert, then the twins, Ludwig and Gunther._

_As for my other fanfics, I'm trying my very best to keep it going. Researching stuff for my writing while working on maps is not something I want the boss to find out..._

_On with the story!_

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I was four years old when my eldest brother passed away. I never knew anything much regarding his death, but I remembered that he had a fever for a month, bed-ridden after two weeks of being sick, unable to walk and talk a week after and finally…he died in his sleep.

Klaus was a loving brother, as far as I could recall. He loved to play with me and my other two brothers…sometimes he would teach us what he learnt in school, talk to us about his friends and his teachers. Father preferred to have us home-schooled, but Klaus was rather rebellious when it came to education. He chose to be in school with the normal townspeople, and although Father would always try to find fault in his choices, he didn't change his mind at all.

When Father wasn't able to come home early due to work, he would fix us supper; usually biscuits and hot milk; then tuck us in bed and tell us stories, of vast fields filled with sunflowers and blue sky painted in the background. Living in the city made us missed our chance to ever see such a wondrous sight, but with how Klaus told us the tales of foreign lands with his loving brotherly voice, it was enough for us to imagine such beauty in our heads.

Yes, I was four years old when Klaus died. He was only sixteen.

My twin brother, Gunther, and I didn't really understand what happened to Klaus when he died in the early morning of January. I woke Gunther up after hearing a loud wail from one of our housekeeper and; clad in our night-gowns; we went out slowly to where the commotion came from. We were only given a glimpse of Klaus's pale face before we were shooed out from his room. We thought he was still sick, and the doctors that came by were only there to give him his medicine. But in the end they carried him away in a hearse. Years later I finally knew the doctors were bringing him to the mortician to be embalmed.

Father didn't talk to us about what was going on, when the doctors hauled Klaus's lifeless body back to their clinic, and we didn't ask about it either. The only one vocal in those quiet moments was Gilbert, my second eldest brother. He was crying and wailing, shouting at father, asking him why the doctors were taking Klaus away. I, in particular, wasn't surprised by Gilbert's reaction. He was after all the closest to Klaus.

The next day, father got us to wake up. He gave us breakfast and got us ready in formal attires...those kinds that I wore for my birthday party, or when there's an important guest in the house. I didn't need to ask him why or for what for. That day was Klaus's funeral day. And father requested for a photography session with our dear brother, before his funeral in the late afternoon.

We never had any family portrait ever since our mother died. You can say that was the first time Gunther and I ever had a photograph session together with our family.

Mother was a beautiful woman, as much as I could remember from the small photographs of her that father still kept. The housekeeper told me once that father had a large photograph of himself and mother, together with a young Klaus and a toddler Gilbert, hanging in an elegant frame and hung at the end of the grand stairs of our mansion. She was pregnant in the photograph, no doubt with me and my twin. She died days after giving birth to us. Father stopped taking photographs of the family, undoubtedly a passion he had developed when he was a young man, since then. He even tore and burnt that large picture and fed the pieces to the fireplace.

Perhaps a second death in father's life led him to embrace back photography. Only this time, the main subject is literally a corpse. I understood why father did so…Klaus barely had any childhood photographs, and now that he had died at such a young age, father decided it was time to get a memory of him intact in a print, kept alive in an image before the burial when we couldn't see his face anymore.

Gunther and I were, as mentioned, four years old. We were just small children that didn't understood much about what happened in the household that day. I did notice the eerie silence from father and Gilbert. Gunther did too, but we still run down the hallways, laughing and chasing each other. After a small serving of cookies given by the maid, who had her cheeks still shone with tears, we were led to the mansion's dancing hall, where father used to hold out feasts and events with his colleagues.

The chamber in our house was cleared of chairs and tables that day, and all the windows were shut off from light from the outside; the only thing left was the walls draped in heavy curtains. When I went into the room, along with my other siblings, the very first thing we saw was Klaus. He wore a formal suit, like the ones he used to wear when he had to accompany our father to work. Klaus's body was lying on a single bed, decorated with frills and fresh flowers all around him. The maidservants were rearranging the flowers, making sure the drapes looked like they were supposed to be and managing Klaus's attire to make it look as perfect as always.

I remembered; standing right in one corner closest to the bed were two photographers. They were dressed less formal that us, and were handing out conversations to each other while their eyes and hands busied with their cameras. Father strode towards them and greeted them silently with a hug. I heard one of them sympathetically apologized for Klaus's death, as the other patted my father's back.

Soon, I found myself, Gunther and Gilbert positioned near Klaus. Since my twin and I were the smallest, we were told to sit on either side of the small bed where Klaus was lying down. It was a difficult feat at first, but we managed it. I wanted to hold Klaus's hand; since this was supposed to be a family photograph; but dismissed the idea when I felt his skin so cold and looking so unnatural. We were told not to smile, so we didn't.

Gilbert didn't want to join us at first, crying and rebelling like a spoilt brat who just missed the carnival fun. Even when father threatened him and managed to get him behind the bed, close to Gunther, he was still sobbing his eyes out. Father didn't comfort him. He almost always never did.

Pictures were taken in multiple flashes. We had the photo session for at least two hours, probably longer. After that we had to leave Klaus alone and return to our rooms. Gilbert ran off to his room first, Gunther wanted to play with Klaus but as his shaking and tugging on Klaus's arm wasn't successful, he sobbed, saying that our eldest brother doesn't love him. Father told me to bring Gunther away and back to our room, and I obeyed.

That was the last time I had seen Klaus. Father didn't allow us to attend the burial ceremony out of fear of our own mental health. Gunther and I waited excitedly for Klaus to return, talking to each other about what games we should play with him, or if he would bring us chocolates or books to be read. We were excited, Gilbert wasn't. At the age of ten, he knew what was going on, he understood that Klaus would never return, he knew our eldest brother had died.

In between my time as a four year old kid and hitting puberty, I lived on the belief that Klaus was sick and he went away to find a cure, until I gave up hoping for his return. Only after my father died fifteen years later did I finally visit his final resting place.

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0…0…0…0…0

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Gunther and I were sixteen when Gilbert gave two puppies as birthday presents for us; a German shepherd and a Dachshund. Gilbert joined the army three years ago and was just promoted to First Lieutenant in the Infantry and Tank division. He gave us the present as a token of his love for us, and as a celebration for his promotion as well. We named the Dachshund Blackie, and the German shepherd, Berlitz.

Father wasn't too happy about Gilbert joining the army, since he wanted him to be a business merchant like him. But by the time Gunther and I turned eighteen, the government had proposed that all young men were to be reported to the army for two years. It was compulsory, so we had to join the army, despite father not consenting to the move. Gunther was appointed in the Air Force division as a vehicle technician, while I settled with the Field Medical Team.

I was eighteen when we joined the army. I was also eighteen when Gilbert died. He was twenty four.

Gilbert was given a mission to help another country holding back rebels. I wasn't sure what country, but it was probably in the Northern part of the world. His tank was in the open and the oppositions threw Molotov cocktails on it. The tank pilot was killed, and Gilbert, who was the co-pilot in that mission, escaped with bad burns on his legs. Gilbert managed to get far enough from the battle field to hide, until the rebels found him and shot him through his back with a machinegun.

I wasn't sure how far I should believe this story of my brother's last struggle before death came and embraced him. It was only written in a letter, addressed to our home. Gunther was with father when the letter arrived and he wasn't too pleased with the story surrounding Gilbert's demise. He wasn't really upset that our brother died in war, but he was disappointed that Gilbert ran away and hid instead of fighting back. He called my brother a coward, and refused to even follow father and I when we were asked to identify his horrifically mutilated body at the military's morgue.

Gunther was a stern man himself. You can say he had father's trait the most. He never believed in cowardice and weaklings, and as such, he would be very cold sometimes. He was strict in his beliefs and in what he stood for, though I think he softened himself more when he was with me.

Father once again requested that Gilbert's corpse to be embalmed, despite his body was already dead for two days and was then in a rigor mortis state. His corpse had almost lost its usual pale colour, and the blood that was still inside his body had started to pool on his back. I didn't know how the embalming process works, and I wasn't sure how it would work seeing that Gilbert's body was rather scarred with bullet wounds and fire, the burnt mark still looked as if it just happened minutes ago… But somehow the morticians managed the task, and the make-up and reconstruction on his wounds made him look so alive.

Despite father being rather indifferent with Gilbert and his choices in life, I knew he still loved him. Gilbert was different from us all. Klaus, Gunther and I looked very much alike, having gold blonde hair and baby blue eyes, and we inherited our looks from father. Gilbert, however, had a platinum blond hair, pale skin and hazel-coloured irises…a look I recognized that came from the photographs of my late mother. Gilbert probably reminded him so much of his dead wife; that he rather treated our brother as he did, rather than being reminded of her ever so often.

And again, for the second time in my life, father requested us to have a photograph taken with our dead brother. Gunther was against it at first, saying that this style of photography was out-of-date, and that he didn't want to take a picture with a coward who died in war. Gunther wasn't always happy when it came to Gilbert, and I wondered if something personal had happened between them. Sometimes I wondered if it was the scar on his cheek that Gilbert had accidentally given him that made him rather spiteful of our older brother. After a few talks, we finally convinced him to join in.

But indeed, Gunther was right. Such an old-school way of photography had long since died. Practically society then wouldn't see this as something normal, and instead would deem anyone doing photography with the dead to be morbid sadists, satanic, witches… We no longer lived in a world where dead people should be remembered this way. But, despite this, father was still insistent, and although there was no one that was willing to do the photo session for him, father did it himself.

Gilbert was dressed in his official blue military uniform, together with the insignias and badges that he earned during his service, as well as his visor cap and black boots. I donned my green military uniform, complete with the Medic armband and medical bag. Gunther was dressed in his brown uniform complete with a pilot's cap and goggles, though he hung his black leather coat on one arm. Blackie and Berlitz sensed the gloom that surrounded us as we took our place on the chairs, with Gilbert's lifeless body propped up with a stand that locked his neck and waist into a standing position, right behind us.

Our older brother was cleaned and had a few touch-ups and stitches on his face, and I had to admit whoever did the make-up was very good at it. Gilbert looked like he never died, if it hadn't been for his sunken eyes and closed eyelids, and his lack of breathing. Gunther and I settled on the chairs, looking nowhere but the camera lens. Our dogs sat next to us obediently, as we waited for the camera to flash its lights. Father didn't join us for the shoots, though I did took a few pictures of him preparing Gilbert by locking the stand to his back carefully like how our maidservant would sew a hole on our clothes.

I had never seen him so sad and quiet with Gilbert before.

The photo session was shorter than the one we had with Klaus. And the emotions were even more mixed than before. Both Gunther and I were still small when Klaus died; we never fully understood the grim expressions on everyone's faces that time. But this moment…with Gilbert's lifeless body behind us standing idle as the camera flashed…we sensed that sadness. I did, at least. I understood that, no matter how many times we tried to capture our memories with Gilbert, happy or sad, we can never have him back the way he was. He died, and we lost him.

I also understood that this moment would be the very last time we could see Gilbert…just like Klaus, he will be buried in the cemetery, and the sight of him that was captured in the negative would be the last.

Gilbert was buried next to Klaus's grave, in full military funeral reception. My family and our servants were seated on one side of the grave, watching as his coffin was lowered down the hole. Prideful music was played in the background, and soldiers lined up in front of us, before Gilbert's supervisor went to my father with the flag he folded in his hands. Father was appreciative to the honour of receiving the flag. We all did, though I could never really tell if Gunther felt the same. But Gunther was nowhere to be seen during Gilbert's funeral. And I never knew he was crying over Gilbert's death in the car until he told me about it years after.

Father did expressed how much he hated the way Gilbert turned out in the pictures he took, that, days after the funeral, he requested that the pictures to be taken again. Gunther and I protested in his decision to exhume Gilbert's body, so we searched for ways to modify the pictures we had. Finally, we settled with filling in colours through the negative and paint eyes on Gilbert's closed eyelids.

My twin brother and I agreed that Father had gone completely mad and had since steered away from him. Least that we know that, after three years of Gilbert's funeral, Father would meet his demise in a road accident that caused his car to be thrown down to the rocks at the bottom of a cliff. We never found his body.

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0…0…0…0…0

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Gunther and I were thirty years old when I had my first degree in taxidermy. I never knew exactly why I chose it, since I had a bright future career in the medical field after serving the military for ten years. Perhaps, after witnessing my brothers' deaths in which their bodies were kept preserved made me think of pursuing this career. Or perhaps, it was also the guilt I felt from my father's death.

I opened a taxidermy shop two years later and took photography as a part time hobby. Blackie and Berlitz were my first embalmed subjects. The dogs had both died of old age, and I had stuffed their bodies and made them to display in the front of my shop. Business was very good back then, considering that hunting was in the hype of its time in where we lived in.

Gunther gave up working with the military six years before I did, and had since worked numerous part time jobs to accommodate to his personal needs. Like me, he was never acquainted with a love interest. We never thought of it actually, considering that we were wealthy enough as it is and we already had so many friends who were willing to stick around for us just so we could give gifts to them and free feasts once in a while.

Most of the time, I would find Gunther sleeping in his room with his usual excuse of having a headache. I always thought of him being lazy and he possibly had lost interest towards the things happening around him. But when he experienced his first seizure that almost made him bit his tongue off, I knew his constant headaches were not normal.

I forced him to consult a well-known doctor, who was also my lecturer back when I was working in the military, and that was when we learnt that he had a brain tumour and it was cancerous. During those times, cancerous tumour was considered a death sentence to a person, and that there was never a chance of curing it at all. But Gunther was oddly optimistic about it. He believed there was a way to overcome it. As worried as I was about him, knowing my twin brother, who was seriously a complete opposite of me personality-wise, I let him did as he pleased.

Gunther signed up for a brain surgery afterwards. He told me the list was long, but he chose to wait instead of getting a radiation treatment. Over the months of waiting, I had to say I had never been so cautious about him in my whole life. Gunther would have seizures in unexpected times, and I would always be there to hold him down until the seizures stopped. Sometimes he would inform me that the seizure was about to happen and managed to smile and wave at me before he fell down to the ground, convulsing violently. He never ceased to be that silly twin brother I had.

We spent our time together and I never left him out in almost anything I do. We shared the things that we both love, we had little adventures across the country, we even did things we thought we could never do. However, as the wait had come into its fifth month, the seizures had gone from bad to worse, and at one point even his medications didn't work on him at all. In the next three weeks, finally, Gunther was called for the operation.

My brother was in such a good mood when he packed his clothes in his bag, telling me all the things he would love to do once the surgery was done. He even told me jokingly that he would need smaller clothes since he had lost weight and he had a feeling he would lost more later on. Before we went out and made our way to the hospital, he gave me something as a token of appreciation towards my care for him all the while.

It was a Doberman puppy. He told me he called her Aster, though he wouldn't mind if I called her something else.

That was the last gift I ever got from Gunther.

When I was thirty three years old, Gunther died. The operation wasn't successful, and although the doctors apologized and blamed themselves for not being able to take the tumour out, I knew it wasn't their fault. Gunther's tumour had grown too rapidly and everyone knew it was already too late for him. There was no chance of him living even if he had gone under radiation treatment before this too, let alone a life-threatening brain surgery.

As a final respect to my brother, the last of my family to ever lived, I requested to embalm his body in the morgue; alone. The morticians understood my intention, and later that night I came face to face with Gunther's corpse and proceeded to embalm him. It was hard. I found myself crying in a corner every ten minutes, dwelling in the fact that I had lost my closest brother.

I weighed my decision on having a post-mortem photograph taken of Gunther and me, and finally went on with the out-dated idea. I dressed myself and Gunther in identical tuxedoes, the ones that we would wear to feasts held by our rich friends. I made Gunther sit on the couch while I had the camera set on a timer, and then I sat next to him and let his head rest on my shoulder. Gunther looked as if he was sleeping and until now I still believed he was only doing that.

I even had the puppy to sit together with us, as the camera snapped a few photographs in bursts. I never changed the puppy's name.

Later on, I held Gunther's funeral in the same cemetery where my other two brothers were buried. I didn't cry in funerals before, but for my twin brother, tears flowed down like waterfall on my cheeks; accompanying the recitals and silence as his coffin slowly lowered down underground. As Gunther's grave was being filled in, I realized that I had then lost another family. And now I was alone.

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0…0…0…0…0

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"But you still didn't tell me why you left your place and lived here instead."

"…I thought I said it, didn't I? All of my family died and now I'm alone."

"_Da_…but that's not a good reason to sell your big house and cars and possessions…and move into this little dump."

"I like it here. The place is calm, people are friendly… And have you ever been in a mansion alone at night…where the floors echoed and the walls talked to you? You'll probably escape out the window in a second…"

I heard the signature giggle coming out from the young Russian's smile. His freckled cheeks tinted red in the cold basement where I store most of the animals that I would perform taxidermy on. Although outside was colder, somehow this boy just seemed to blush every time I see him. Ever since I moved into this new town, he was the one who would accompany me in my lonely taxidermy shop. We were so close that his mother already knew where to find him if he didn't return home from school immediately.

After Gunther's death, I decided to auction and sell all the things that my family had left me with, and moved to a smaller suburban town. My taxidermy business was still doing well, considering that this town had many hunting season going all year round. I lived in the town for five years, before Ivan's family moved in, and suddenly we were close friends. We were such for two years now.

Ivan was a fourteen year old Russian boy. He has ash blonde hair that grew long until it nearly covered his eyes, has odd but pretty purple irises…he was rather tall for his age too. Ivan's father was a well-known hunter from where they used to live and his mother worked as a seamstress and she had her shop right next to their home. I never asked why they moved to this little town, but I had a feeling Ivan and his siblings' education had something to do with it.

"So…aren't you going home? Your mother's going to be mad if you don't…" I said; as I pushed the table with a Moose head that I working on to the centre of the room, where the light was brighter. I eyed Ivan, who was by then walking along the wall, looking at some pictures I hung up on it. Most of the pictures were post-mortem photographs from clients who were interested in my photography work; some were of my dead family.

"Ah…no. If I go home now, mommy will force me to take care of Natalya. I know, she's still a baby…but I can't stand the noises she makes. And oh, she bites!" He stopped at one of the picture frames, and took it down. I didn't mind; it wasn't the first time he did that. "Besides, I like it here."

"Are you sure, Ivan?" I chuckled. My hands and eyes concentrated fully on the animal head in front of me. "Are you sure your mother wouldn't mind that you have a forty year old man for a friend? I mean, people could make you feel ashamed for having, literally, an old friend…"

"Hey, dad said a wonderful life starts at forty. Why should I be ashamed then?" Ivan flashed his cute little grin at me. I returned it. "Like I said, I really like it here. My friends at school sucks …all they talked about are movies and girls and games…ugh.

"Too bad they don't know the really cool stuff…like deer hunting or dancing _Trepak_, or…or taking pictures with dead dogs…" Silence went in for a moment, before he placed the photo frame that he took off from the wall onto the table. I paused and looked at him, then to the photograph that he was referring to.

I recognized the photo very well. I took it about four years ago, two years before Ivan moved in. It was captured after Aster's accident. I remembered letting Aster out to play…Aster had grown so big but somehow it never crossed my mind that she would jump over the fence and went on her short-lived journey down the street. Aster never went out of our compound without me, and I knew she needed me to help her cross the road. She was hit by a speeding truck later on and died on the spot.

Being a taxidermist, there was nothing closer to odd when I took Aster's motionless body straight to the shop and stuffed her. Four weeks later, I decided to have a shot with my dead, stuffed dogs.

In the picture I was squatting with my three dogs surrounding me, looking as if they were in for a candid shot. Unlike the uninteresting photographs I had with my deceased family, I had set up a realistically painted background of a sunflower field and a green rug underneath our feet. Technology had advanced rapidly since Gunther's death, and now the processed picture looked just like what we see, like the beings in the image are alive. Except that the dogs weren't alive when the photo was taken…

Strange as it was, I realized how much I was smiling in that picture. I held on a stern image when I had my picture taken with my dead brothers, but not in this one. I couldn't tell either; if the smile was a way to make-believe that the photo was 'real', or if the photo was the spiteful image of the childhood dreams I had when Klaus told Gunther and me bedtime stories…or if the smile was a reminder of the loneliness that had by then befell me…

"I really like it. Your smile, I mean…"

Ivan took the picture away and I felt my gaze went from the spot where the object used to be on, to Ivan's freckled face. I sensed the additional blush on those pale cheeks of his, but I didn't really question him about it at that moment. "What do you mean, Ivan?"

He didn't responded immediately, and proceeded to place back the photo frame on the wall. And I continued to watch him, still rather confused by what he meant with those words.

"I think I'll go home. I'm getting hungry." He took his bag and slung it over his shoulder before coming towards me again. Under the white light of the lamp, I could still see the redness on his face, even if he had lowered his head down so the shadow could

"Um…is it okay if I come here again tomorrow?"

"Of course! I never shooed you off before, didn't I? You're always welcome here, Ivan."

"And…Mr. Beilschmidt? Is it…umm…is it okay if just call you…Ludwig?"

"…uh…sure. If you think it's easier to call me by my name, I don't-"

Ivan looked up and I swore I saw his beautiful eyes shone in anticipation under that lamp light. There was uncertainty and happiness in those mysterious purple irises, but I was too dumb and slow to know what it was…until, I found my lips locked with Ivan's.

At the age of forty, that was the time someone stole my first kiss.

He kissed me for a minute longer, earning embarrassing blushes on our cheeks as he slowly retreated back. We stared at each other, trying to dig back reasons why we had let that happen, and Ivan broke the silence with his giggle. "I…I'm sorry…I just…I…I think I better go now…"

Ivan rushed to the wooden stairs that led up to the backroom of my shop, leaving me still dumbfounded by the kiss. He stopped midway only to turn and look at me, saying; "I wished you smile more. You look like an Angel when you smile…"

He gave me a sheepish grin and consciously looked away, as his face turned redder by the second.

"I…I really like you…Ludwig."

With that he left in a rush. And I found my feet nailed to the ground, unable to move or comprehend the feelings inside me at that moment. I had never felt this…shy and nervous, yet at the same time I felt blissful. I felt like suddenly…I wasn't lonely anymore.

But, given that Ivan was still in his early teens, it never occurred to me that what he said was a serious matter. I thought he said so in the sense that he liked me just as he liked his parents and family, and friends. Even if the kiss wasn't explaining anything close to it, I still wanted to believe that what he said meant that I was nothing more than his old (literally) best friend.

It never occurred to me that he really meant what he said. Not until the next fifteen years when we exchanged vows in a small wedding reception nearby a sunflower field, just like the beautiful tales that my eldest brother used to tell me about as he tucked me in bed.

.

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_Reviews are always welcomed!_


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N**_**:**__ Sorry for those who waited for this story. I was trying to figure out what else I should add so this could end well...so, yeah. This is not the last chapter yet. I might add another one, since the main theme of this story is post-mortem photography._

As usual, Klaus is HRE and Gunther is 2P!Germany/East Germany. Their father is Germania. Klaus is the eldest, followed by Gilbert, then the twins, Ludwig and Gunther.

I'm doing this alongside Pain of Love Last a Lifetime. I'm still drilling for ideas for the next chapter, because...well, let's just say I don't know how the conversations in a custody trial should be like. I'm still doing research on this, watching movies with this subject in the process ;w;

Anyway, on with the fic!

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Ivan was well past twenty on the day he first invited me for dinner with his family. That was the first time I went inside his small but neat home, of which he shared with his parents and two sisters, and certainly the first time I met his father.

Ivan's father looked older, although I thought he was probably about the same age as I. He was just like how Ivan described to me many times – a large, gruff-looking man with a thick moustache under a nose similarly big like Ivan's; his greying hair gradually thinning out on the edge of his forehead and his eyes darting at anything he sees almost unforgivingly. I least expected him to even talk to me, but as I stepped into the kitchen where Ivan's family gathered for dinner, the man welcomed me like an old friend.

The dinner went on silently, with Ivan's mother occasionally trying to start a conversation with me about our businesses. As our plates were nearly empty, finally Ivan stated the main reason he invited me over. A reason I never thought he would say out loud and left me flabbergasted for the rest of the day.

"Mama…papa…Iryna… I know we talked about this. I know you're not happy with it...especially you, Iryna. But I've been thinking and I believe my choices are right." I remembered Ivan looking at me, the same blush emerging slowly on his softly freckled cheeks and the same small smile that never changed from his baby face.

"I love Ludwig…and I want to marry him."

I looked at him wide-eyed with my face heated up in embarrassment, almost feeling like I was in a bad dream. I hoped I misheard his words, or that he was addressing it to a different Ludwig…but the silence that came in afterwards convinced me otherwise.I still recalled his father eyeing me carefully with his angry eyes, his mother slowly lowering her gaze and playing with the leftovers on her plate with her fork. Ivan's older sister, probably about seven or eight years older than him, stood up and left the table without uttering a word. The only sound in such an awkward moment was little Natalya, giggling and pointing at Ivan. She probably thought Ivan was being funny when he muttered the confession.

We ended up not saying anything else and somewhat pretended that it didn't happen. I wanted to excuse myself after cleaning up, but Ivan's father pulled me away from the rest of the family members and we ended up standing at the walkway of his home.

"Cigar?" He offered, extending one as he placed another in between his teeth.

"No thanks. I don't smoke."

"Good for you." He put away the cigar in his pocket and lit up the one at his mouth. "No wonder you looked younger than your age."

I only nodded at his remark then we went quiet again. We stood there for a few minutes, watching the lamp-lit street filling up with cars and people walking by. The night was still young; the stars had yet to show up in the dark sky. I knew the reason he dragged me out was to talk about Ivan, or at least beat me up for letting his son fell in love with me. Either one, I was undoubtedly nervous. Had I suffer from a heart disease, I could have died in shock.

"Ivan talked about you every day. He told us about what you did, what you said, what you liked…everything. I did suspect that his ramblings were more than an obsession towards you…" He puffed on his cigar and continued, as I calmly listened.

"The last few weeks, he told us about his intentions to propose and marry you. We were upset, of course. We never thought he would admit that he loved a man…much older than him, to add to it. Marina, my wife…she cried the whole night. Iryna locked herself in her room and never came out for the whole day. And I…I was so outraged that I whipped Ivan with my leather belt…so hard; it tore into two…"

I kept quiet, watching the man as the image of Ivan limping and refusing to sit down, when he visited my shop before this, came back to mind. "I…I didn't know he had feelings for me, Mr. Braginsky. I'm sorry…if I had known, I would…well, talk him out of it and—"

"Nyet. No. I don't want you to do that, Ludwig. I don't want you to give him nonsensical advices."

He took his burning cigar away and looked me in the eye. As his heavy hand rested firmly on my shoulder, I knew whatever he would say to me after would be something I need to think hard on. Because it would not only determine Ivan's future, it would also alter mine as well.

"I took me a lot of self-convincing that Ivan wasn't playing games when he said he loved you. I understood what he wanted, and as much as a father would gloom over the fact that his son loves another man, I cannot deny it.

"Ludwig, if I allow Ivan to marry you, are you willing to return his love?"

Could I? I had never fallen in love with anyone in my life. Yes, I did have women trying to flirt with me, some rich boys taking their chances in seducing me…but never had I fell for their moves. I usually brush them away, thinking that they were only doing so as a joke and it was nothing near serious. Klaus used to talk about a boy he liked in school, but I didn't remember seeing them together. Gilbert was a womanizer. His status in the army earned him three to four women clinging to him at one time. Gunther never had the chance to love anyone.

But with an age gap of more than twenty years between Ivan and I… I really couldn't tell how well it would be if I was willing to marry the Russian. Let alone live with him for the entirety of my life.

"I… I don't know, Mr. Braginsky. Really…I mean; Ivan is young! Isn't he interested in…in women, or men of his age? He must have plenty of friends from where he's studying now, yes? He must be more attracted in them than-"

"Ludwig. I'm a man of respect. I understand things as I lived on, I know what I'm dealing with, whether it is wrong or right… I learnt as I progressed in life. If you think that the idea of marrying a young man will degrade you and your family's name, then I have to tell you that rejecting the idea would dishonour Ivan instead.

"If you chose to learn and love my son, we will always protect the both of you, no matter what people would say. If you chose to leave…my son will continue his life in grief because I know how much you mean to him. But I won't hold a grudge on you, if you had chosen the latter… there are many choices in life that we have to make, and love is only a tiny part of it."

Choices…I knew plenty of them that I made; some were appreciated, some were regretted. Never before was I given a choice whether to love someone or not. But at the age of forty six, I had learnt enough that being too choosy won't get me anywhere. And it is true. It was indeed, time for me…

"…Mr. Braginsky…not really wanting to sound ruder than I already did…but, since Ivan is still a student…I was…I was wondering…what time do you propose is the best time to pick him up for a date…?"

…time for me to start falling in love.

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0…0…0…0…0

.

Ivan and I finally got married. It happened right at the outskirts of town, where a field of sunflowers grew; a field I never knew existed. The wedding was only attended by Ivan's family and our closest friends. One of my best friends, a French cook in one of the best restaurants in town, was so kind to provide the catering and the wedding cake for us.

We were married two months before I turned forty seven.

It was one of the best moments in my life.

I remembered wearing a white tuxedo; something I never thought I would look good wearing it, though Ivan always convinced me otherwise. I was walking down the aisle, accompanied by Ivan's mother, with a small bouquet of blue flowers in my hands. I guessed my face was rather red that time, and I tried so hard to hide the shyness with an awkward smile.

Ivan was, to say the least, very handsome that day. He was also in a white tuxedo, waiting for his soon-to-be-husband on top of a small stage. I never imagined the young boy with the freckled face that usually stopped by my shop after school, years ago, was waiting for me right before the priest and our friends and family. That young, cute boy…grew up to finally be married to me.

Ivan's mother led me straight to the front, and within seconds, I found myself facing Ivan. I remembered seeing Ivan smiling widely, and at that moment I swore I saw his eyes watered with tears.

"You look so beautiful, Ludwig….just like an Angel."

His soft voice was quivering when he said those words, and I remembered how hard he tried not to cry. I remembered how hard I tried not to cry. In the end we giggled quietly and wiped each other's tears, before the priest started with the reception. In a minute or two of exchanging vows, Ivan and I placed our rings on each other's fingers, embraced and kissed. Everyone clapped and cheered.

We were finally spouses, better halves of each other. And it stayed on for years and years to come.

The wedding reception continued with more laughter and smiles. Aside from the great food, I was glad that the guest were having fun and not judging Ivan and I like how I anticipated they would do. After the day-long ceremony, we had another feast with the Braginsky household, before settling back into the room Ivan's parents had designated for our first night together.

And that night was the time I lost my virginity to the man I loved.

Sex is an awkward subject to me, I have to admit. Moreover, we were both men…while I didn't mind however Ivan wanted it; I would always fall back and be the receiver. My husband always tried to persuade me to exchange roles with him on bed; he tried almost every time we were together, but alas, I was never good in this part of us being spouses.

I never complained of the uneasiness of having sex, though I knew Ivan was very concerned that he would hurt me in the process. He feared he would hurt me and eventually jeopardize our marriage.

But thank God, it never happened.

Days after the wedding, Ivan decided to move in with me, considering that he was still studying and had yet to earn money to buy us a house. I didn't mind. After all, it was undeniable lonely living alone in that small house. However, even after Ivan managed to get a job as a lecturer at the same college he attended, we never really bought a new house. We were comfortable in this one as it was.

Sometimes when I was with Ivan, I felt spoilt. He would always stop me halfway from doing tasks that I found rather simple for me to do, like cooking and washing the laundry, and then took over the job for me instead. Not that I complained, but it was rather unnatural for me to have someone doing things for me. I know I used to have maidservants who would serve me dinner and make my bed, but that was only when I was barely a teenager. Even after that I still would do things on my own.

Ivan did a lot of things for me. I could have guessed it must be due to my age, but he almost always denied it. In fact, he didn't want to talk about the difference in our age at all. He treated me like how a young man would treat his young wife. Even if I would always be the one who would scold him for some of his childish acts, and sometimes I would give him advises and helped him with his homework…most of the time it was Ivan who took control of the gears. He taught me new things I never bothered to try, he handled heavy works in the house and he always made sure that I was always in good health.

If there wasn't much work to do for the day, I would visit Ivan during lunch breaks. Usually, I would close my shop on said day and cook some meals - hefty meals, if I might add - and packed them before visiting Ivan in college. He welcomed me gratefully…of course, not without his face red with the embarrassment from the friendly jokes his classmates would pull on him, when he approached me in the hallways after class.

When Ivan wasn't so busy with his schoolwork, he would help me in the taxidermy shop. Even after he managed to get a job, whenever he was free, he would still help me with the embalming and stuffing. During weekends, we would spend our mornings near the sunflower field, where we had our wedding, having a picnic or just reading books and exchange stories.

We lived our life this way for years and years to come.

We were very happy.

Sometimes I felt like I wasn't enough for Ivan, and that I didn't deserve such a handsome, chivalrous man to share my life with. Sometimes I felt guilty of not being able to do many things for him, like, showering him with wealth, or providing him the best of everything, or giving him children of his own… But just like me, Ivan never complained.

There were times when I felt depressed, or if my hormones were acting up, I would always question why Ivan wanted to be with me, and apologize to him for having to marry an old man. Ivan wouldn't say a word, as usual, and only proceeded to hug and kiss me, so I could feel better throughout the day. If needed be, we would retreat back to our bedroom quietly and make love.

And in one of those nights of love-making, as we lie next to each other on the bed; exhausted and cooling off from the heat, I questioned him this; "Do you love me, Ivan?"

"Of course I do, Ludwig. I always love my sweet Angel." It was his usual answer, but this time he added; after pulling my thin body closer to his bigger one; "Why did you ask? Is there something wrong?"

"…Ivan…you're forty-two now… I'm…I'll be sixty-nine soon…"

"_Da._" I remembered he planted a soft kiss on my shoulder at that moment, I felt him smiling against my skin. "Best twenty years or so of my life."

"…Ivan….what…what if I have to leave you one day…?"

"Hehe. What are you saying, Lu-?" He chuckled at first, but then he left his words hanging… a sign that he understood what I was thinking. "Ludwig, don't…don't say that…"

"…If I have to go, you'll be all alone… I won't be able to cook you dinner anymore… we won't be spending our weekends at the field… and when you wake up in the morning, I won't be there by your side to kiss you…"

I didn't realize I was sobbing until I felt Ivan's hand on my arm, carefully turning me to the side that was facing him. I tried to cover my face out of embarrassment, but Ivan pulled my hands away. I kept on crying.

"…I don't want you to b-be alone… I-I hate being alone… I don't w-want the same thing to happen to you too…"

"Ludwig…Ludwig, my love, listen to me…" He managed to pry my hands away and I was forced to look into his beautiful violet eyes. In that short moment of silence, I had stopped myself from crying though my chest still felt heavy from the sudden emotions that swept through me before. When he was sure I wouldn't get into yet another teary fit, he continued;

"We are human beings, Ludwig. One day, we have to leave the world…no matter how much we didn't want to, we will have to go somewhere after this life. Sometimes we go together, sometimes alone.

"But as long as it doesn't happen, I will forever be with you, Ludwig. I will forever love you. I promise you that."

My husband embraced me in his arms, I returned it and buried my face on his shoulder; mumbling between the soft sobs that never seemed to want to go away. "…if I have to die first…I promise, wherever I will be, no matter how long, I will wait for you. I love you, Ivan. Always."

He gave me another kiss on my forehead, right near the receding hairline of my greying hair, and we finally fell asleep in each other's arms. And that was the last time we ever talked about the subject. I wasn't sure why; perhaps we really forgot, handling with our lives and all, or perhaps we never wanted to remind ourselves that we would be separated in such a way someday.

We went through good and bad times, without depleting a single share of our love for each other.

We lived together, a happily married couple, for nearly forty years.

And then, my health started to deteriorate.

.

0…0…0…0…0

.

I was well past eighty years old when I realized how painful it was to walk. No, my legs were just fine except the occasional clicks from my left knee, but there were times my chest hurt so bad I had to stop from whatever I was doing at the moment and sit down. At times, the pain was so excruciating I could only sob and wished Ivan would be back home soon.

Ivan, even at the age of fifty-six, was still the concerned man I knew. Every time he saw me falling silent and pressing a hand on my chest, he would quickly came to my side and persuade me to see the doctor. And, as always, I turned his offer down, lying to him that I will be fine.

I knew I wasn't.

The pain became a constant feat in my life after eighty. Sometimes I opted to hide it from Ivan, as not to worry him too much…sometimes I couldn't take in the pain and simply fainted from it. Within a year, I could count about five to six times I was sent into the emergency room, and in one of those times I required a defibrillator to get my heart start beating again.

Ivan still insisted that I obtain treatment…or a surgery at most, to get my health back to normal, but I never agreed to his suggestions. I kept telling him I was fine, although we both knew it was the opposite. I was dying.

I told my husband that, even if I might go elsewhere in one of the days to come, I never wanted him to treat me like so. I didn't want him to feel burdened from the need to take care of me; I didn't want him to feel depressed of my conditions. And fortunately, he listened.

He would still stop me halfway and took over the housework for me. I still would be the one who would scold him for his childish acts and give him advises. He taught me new things I never bothered to try, he handled heavy works in the house and he always made sure that I was always in good health. He still treated me like how a young man would treat his young wife.

If I was feeling healthier than yesterday, I would visit Ivan during his office breaks. As usual I would cook some meals and packed them before visiting Ivan in college. During weekends, we still spent our mornings near the sunflower field, where we had our wedding, having a picnic or just reading books and exchange stories.

Ivan was sixty-three and I was eighty-nine when we had our last picnic together.

We went to the same old sunflower field, along with Iryna's daughters, as well as their husbands and children. Iryna was still cold towards me, even after spending years with her family. Ever since Ivan's parents passed away years ago, Iryna had softened a bit. She would allow her children to visit us since then, but she rarely came with them. Only after this last gathering, did I finally meet her again.

I don't quite recall how it happened…I only remembered Iryna's grandchildren pulling my hand and urging me to follow them to pick up a few sunflowers. I remembered hearing the faint laughter from Ivan and his nieces, perhaps from watching me being comically pulled by young children. I remembered the summer breeze blowing past me as I smiled, looking at the beautiful sight of a sunflower field ahead of me.

But I vaguely remembered the pain in my chest that came jolting painfully, causing me to drop down to my knees in an instant. I couldn't quite recall what happened later on…except the children screaming and calling for their mothers, and Ivan's voice frantically calling my name. My vision turned black as my head hit the ground, and the last thing I saw at that time was the sunlight peeking from between the sunflower stalks.

I opened my eyes two days later, on a hospital bed with wires sticking out from my wrist and chest. Ivan's smile and tear-filled eyes was the first thing that came into view. He combed my white hair with the tip of his fingers lovingly, as I tried my hardest to bring my wrinkled hand to his face and wipe the flowing tears on his cheek. I tried to smile back…and I think it worked, because Ivan was smiling wider than before.

After the incident, I found out that I didn't have the strength to stand, let alone walk, anymore. The doctor, the husband to one of Ivan's nieces, allowed me to stay home, although he proposed that I was to be monitored at all times. On the eighth day of my visit to the hospital, I was allowed to go home with Ivan…of course; not without the wires and monitors and other medical tools to accompany me every hour, every day right beside my bed.

Ivan took two days off every week so he could be with me. He would cook and feed me, usually fish porridges and soft bread dipped in my favourite soup. At night he would sit next to me, reading the books that we had yet to finish on our weekend trips to the field. Sometimes he would make up stories about us and the sunflower fields and his stories never failed to make me smile, even if I could barely utter a word to him.

For some reason, it felt just like the time when Klaus read his bedtime stories to me and Gunther, and Gilbert wouldn't be too far off, listening to us. And Father…although it could be possible that he wasn't there to watch us sleep after the bedtime story, but deep in my heart, I always wanted to believe he did. This memory…for some reason came back into my mind once again.

And by then I knew, that my life was shortened enough that I could count how many days were there left for me to keep on breathing…how many more days left for me to be with Ivan.

Ivan would always watch over me, at times panicking when my heart rate drew abnormal lines on the monitor's screen. Although we would giggle together, once everything was settled, I understood well enough I wouldn't survive this. Age had caught up with me, and slowly it brought me to death's doorstep. Even if there was a chance I could fight it, I knew I couldn't. Even if my husband always assured me that I would be okay, I knew he was only saying that to make himself feel better, and to make me feel less afraid.

Occasionally Ivan would bring me out into our garden for some fresh air, just so I wouldn't be bored being bedridden all day long. He never used a wheelchair, and when bringing me out, he would tie me to his back with a long cloth and carried me out. I protested at first, considering that Ivan always had back pains, but he didn't mind. He told me he loves me too much to even care about the pain. At night, when it was not too cold outside, he would do the same, and stood there with me strapped to his back, watching the stars and the moon and awing their beauty.

Our wonderful moments together didn't last forever. Four months after the hospital admission, the doctor found out that my lungs were failing and one of my kidneys had stopped working. I had to rely on a ventilator to help me breathe, while more machines helped to keep my body going.

My health was deteriorating and I knew I couldn't last long.

Ivan's nieces came to visit me one day, along with their bigger families. The young children, who affectionately called me their 'old Lutz', came to greet me, giving me Get Well cards and flowers so I would feel better soon. Their sweet smiles contradicted with the adults', however. Of course, they didn't know how severe my health was, and that I was going to leave them soon.

Iryna came to visit, after years of isolating herself from Ivan and me, and for the first and last time she talked, laughed, smiled and cried with me. We shared one whole day together, and although I could no longer talk with the breather strapped to my face, I only nodded and smiled at her. She reminded me a lot of Father…always isolating himself from everyone…but when something happened, he would always be the one to talk the longest.

Natalya was away on a business trip and she couldn't make it home. Ivan called her in front of me, and using the loud speaker option on the phone, I heard her voice, calling me out and telling me to stay strong, and that whatever happens, I was always the second brother she would ever love. I wished I could tell her the same when I heard her sobbing through the phone.

Ivan was the last person to be with me. After our family and friends visited us, it was back to being me and him. He spent more time with me; almost every night he was always up to make sure I was alright. He was still that concerned man I love.

The need to sleep must have gotten to him and one night, he slept right next to me. He had one arm lying on top of mine, and his handsome face was facing mine. I glanced at him, admiring the man I married over forty years ago…the man that never gave up loving me.

I remembered tears streaming down from the corner of my eyes, as I slowly pulled the breather away from my face. It was difficult to breathe, also rather difficult to move my body. But I managed to anyway; long enough to lean in towards Ivan and kissed on his forehead, where his receding hairline of his greying hair stood. I remembered carefully curling my fingers and intertwined them with his, and whispered;

"…I promise…I will…wait for you…I…love you…Ivan…Always…"

At that moment, all the sweet and bitter memories I had since I was small…Klaus's death, Gilbert joining the army, Father's accident, Gunther's cancer, my marriage to Ivan…all of them, came flashing before my eyes.

I never complained about my life, nor the beginning and the end of it, but to think of leaving my husband alone was gripping me with sorrow. I knew he would be sad, but even if I didn't want to see him cry, I didn't want him to mourn me too much. He should know, that no matter where, no matter what…I will always love him.

I watched Ivan for one last time. I kissed his lips softly and smiled, despite the heaviness in my chest and the pain in my heart. I didn't bother to strap the breather back. Slowly, my vision started to get hazy. My feet went cold and I could no longer move my toes. Slowly, the coldness crept from my feet, up my legs and torso, and as it hit my chest, the pain came back again.

Death was painful, I had to admit. But I endured it anyway. I am, after all, a human being. And the time has come for me to leave the world.

To leave Ivan.

As darkness crawled into my vision, I gripped on Ivan's hand tighter, trying not to be afraid. I closed my eyes and exhaled my last breath.

At the age of eighty-nine, I passed away, holding my husband's hand.

.

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_Reviews are always welcomed!_


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